


Strangers' Touch

by emansil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emansil/pseuds/emansil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco finds unexpected pleasure while riding the Underground to his job in Muggle London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers' Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the HP_kinkfest of 2013. As such it is mature in its content. The kink I wrote was: Gregomulcia - sexual arousal from being fondled in a crowd.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta thrihyrne for her assistance.

Strangers’ Touch

 

The first time it had happened, he’d been shocked, then humiliated. Ultimately, he’d been aroused, very aroused. 

A stray hand, which belonged some unknown, male or female-even that was unclear -- running a finger up the zip of his trousers. The pressure was delicate, the intent hinted at, but not yet clear. 

Draco had turned away. Too shocked, and the train car too crowded for him to do more. The unknown person with the wandering hand followed. The finger, now two, again stroked—from the bottom of the zip all the way to the button at his waist. More pressure. This time the objective was undeniable. 

In no time, Draco was thrusting against the pressure of those fingers, his release pulsing out of him, soaking the inside of his pants and trousers. As the stain spread across his front, he stood immobile, frozen in a paralysis of confusion. Embarrassed that the touch of a stranger had caused him to forget where he was. He’d come, ejaculated, on the London Underground, in car full of countless Muggles on their way home from work, or home, shopping expeditions or wherever peopled were bound on a weekday evening. And none had seen or even noticed. 

Unable to cast a drying spell, he pulled his raincoat tighter around him. As punishment for his part in the war, he suffered a suspension of his magic for a period of not less than five years and no more than ten. He’d Vanish the stain once he arrived home; basic household charms and self-defensive spells, not being part of the ban. 

Draco then became the hunter. With stealth he pursued his next target, the morning commute being his chosen times. Mornings were quieter and thus more of a challenge for him to achieve his goal of orgasm with none being the wiser. Silence with only a slight flare of his nostrils and a deepening of the flush on his face, as his release pulsed from him, was his goal. Keeping his emotions and feelings private a skill he’d become proficient at since his sixth year. The ability had not left him in the subsequent years. The most crowded cars, full of still half –asleep passengers were his preference. Manoeuvring his way to the centre, he’d grab hold of the leather straps that hung from the ceiling. 

Moving and adjusting his position until his crotch made contact with a hand. Once it did, he’d shift minimally, just enough that his cock pressed against it. Accident or intentional, the other could never be positive. If the stranger backed away, Draco followed, but just the once, needing to be sure. Sometimes they really weren’t interested, and he respected that, mostly. Those he would look at, catching their eyes and smiling his apology as he moved away, making them aware what they’d just missed. More often than not, their disappointment was unmistakable. 

But if the stranger understood the unsaid message of either the first or the second contact and remained unmoving, Draco knew he’d found another. Another what –victim, partner, fellow pervert, willing participant, or simple another bored human looking for some way to add some excitement to their mundane life? Whatever it was, it stirred his blood. 

No other encounter got him so hard so fast: not clubs, back alleys or even the few bathhouses he’d visited had. It was the total anonymity of it that drew him. 

Never did he look at the strangers with the hands that touched him on those crowded weekday mornings. Once the unspoken agreement had been made, that was one of his rules; neither was speaking allowed. Those that tried either soon found themselves holding nothing but air and speaking only to themselves. He became adept at manoeuvring through the mass of humanity. He never knew if they tried on other occasions. Daily he changed times, cars, sometimes even the stations he chose to avoid that possibility, having no interest in a repeat. 

The first few times, it happened just as the first had. A finger, the touch light and tentative along his zipper’s seam, then a second, perhaps more, added, pressure increased. Sometimes the hand the fingers belonged to would curve around the base of his crotch, cupping him with confidence. His balls pushed upwards towards his cock, then tugged back down. Other times the hand focused solely on his cock. The pressure against his prick as it increased in length and girth. It surprised him, how quickly being wanked through layers of clothing brought his arousal, and release. 

Soon touching through clothes was not enough; with unvoiced agreement the faceless strangers understood this. His zip was lowered; then fingers would push through the opening, hands following. Some smooth and clearly manicured, he half suspected female, so smooth and small were the hands. Others calloused and rough, the toughened skin of the working class catching on the soft silk of his pants almost brought him to immediate orgasm. 

Mere weeks after the game started, fasteners along with zips were undone. Hands now shoved their way into and under the waist of his pants. Briefs or boxers, the style changed daily, sometimes silk, sometimes a soft cotton, other times the rough fabric of the Y fronts that could be purchased in packs of a dozen at a time from the discount Muggle store where he was employed. The firm and sure strokes pulling and tugging at his cock, the scrape of the pad of the thumb across the head of his prick, gathering the precome that formed there, using it to lubricate the palm that wrapped around this cock, pulling and pushing, until his come pulsed through him and out, coating the stranger’s hand with his spunk. 

Those moments became his reason for getting up in the mornings. His job as assistant sales person at Sainsbury sure wasn’t. Unable to find a job in the Wizarding world, due to bias or simply too few jobs for too many applicants remained unclear. Technically still part of the Wizarding world, he interacted with few. His mother, Pansy, Blaise, sometimes the Greengrass sisters, and most surprisingly on occasion, Luna Lovegood, who insisted they had bonded in some unknown way during her time in their dungeon. Even more astonishing, he found her strangely comforting. Life as he knew it wasn’t what he’d expected, but it was his. As long as he had the random moments on the Underground, it was acceptable, enjoyable even. Until it happened. 

A Tuesday in March, cold and rainy, a nothing kind of day; the sort of day where one certainly didn’t expect the unexpected. The man’s hand, its size and roughness as it grasped him, confirming the gender. The grip was firm and convincing. The hand reached down, pulling at his balls, tangling in the coarse hairs that covered them. Proving they were worthy of his time. This he was used to, but the fingers didn’t stop there; pushed further back, caressing the area just beyond his sac. One stretched even more, searching for his entrance as the faceless stranger’s thumb rubbed firmly against Draco’s shaft. 

Draco could barely breathe. No one had ever strived to reach his arse; never had any of the faceless and voiceless attempted to breach him on the morning train from West Kensington to White Chapel. His orgasm was imminent, just a matter of time. It was building; he felt it in the coil of his gut, the tightening of his loins. Wired and eager he waited, his hold on the leather strap tightening. The finger circled his hole, using Draco’s own precome to ease its way. As the tip pressed against his furled opening, not yet pushing past that ring of muscle, Draco’s head fell back, coming to rest briefly on the shoulder of the rider next to him, his semen surging through him. Opening his eyes, he looked straight at the face of the spectacled and scar headed git, he’d not seen in over five years, at least not this close. 

Potter sat not more than ten feet aware from where Draco stood. His attention focused like a laser on Draco and Potter was smiling. A knowing smile, as if he not only guessed, but knew what was happening, had known for weeks and months. His eyes flicked from Draco’s face down to his crotch, the ever present and inconvenient stain spreading. The stranger continued to wank him, milking him of every drop. The tip of the finger circled and pressed against Draco’s opening, beginning to pulse in invitation for more.

Captivated by those eyes, Draco forgot to move or change position. He never knew what the strangers of the past did with his come that coated their hands, never stayed long enough to see. This time, from the corner of his eye, he saw the man raise his hand to his mouth.

Potter, for his part, lifted his own perfectly clean and dry hand to his mouth and licked it, in mimicry of the faceless stranger. Hypnotized, his flush deepening, Draco stared as Potter dragged the flat of his tongue across the centre of the palm. Watched as Potter flicked the point of his tongue between each of the digits, cleansing them of the wetness that would have seeped between them. Finally, he finished by taking his fingers, one at a time, licking and sucking on it until it glistened with his spit. Unaccountably Draco’s prick began to harden. 

Once done, Potter reached up and pulled the cord that signalled a request to stop at the next station. He stood and moved past Draco, towards the exit. As he did he whispered a few words under his breath, the muscles in his forearm moving just barely. The sudden dryness at this crotch caught Draco unaware. Potter winked at him and left the train. 

Fearful of that happening again, Draco became even more haphazard in his morning travel routine. Sometimes he’d go in two hours early, drinking multiple cups of coffee at his favourite café to pass the time. Other times arriving so late, the manager threatened to fire him. He started riding the cars nearer the front or rear, avoiding the most obvious choices. No matter what he did, at some point he would look up and there would be Potter. If it had been anyone other than the Golden one, Draco would have suspected them of casting unauthorized traces on him. Memories of sixth year and Potter’s obsession of him, making this even more of a possibility. 

At the beginning, Draco continued engaging in the game. But as Potter was always there, Draco found it more difficult to lose himself in the moment. No longer anonymous, someone else was watching, was aware. 

Potter never spoke to Draco, just watched his every movement. Draco certainly never spoke to Potter. A week had passed since Draco had been touched. That morning, Potter moved to stand right next to him and said, “You don’t have to stop on my account.” 

Edgy and on tenterhooks Draco had snapped at him, “So you enjoy watching me get off with a faceless stranger.” 

Potter had smiled, looked Draco from the top of his head, down to the tip of his toes, lingering at his crotch before he answered. “Yeah, I do.” His hand reached towards Draco’s cock, which to his utter mortification was growing in appreciation of the attention being given it. Draco jerked away. Potter just laughed, his eyebrows raised with humour, or perhaps derision. He turned towards the doors already beginning to close. The magic Potter used to keep the doors open long enough for him to depart safely, almost an afterthought. 

After that, days then weeks went by without him seeing Potter at every turn. At first he didn’t believe it, didn’t trust that Potter wasn’t just hiding, wasn’t somewhere Draco couldn’t see. Once he did, to his dismay and ultimate shock, he found he missed Potter. Missed his watching, silent and possessive almost, as another touched Draco, brought him to orgasm. But not as much as he missed the feel of a stranger’s hand on him, bringing him to completion, while fathers and mothers, solicitor’s in their three piece suits and adolescent students, tattooed and pierced with rainbow coloured hair, all stood within mere inches of them. None of them ever knowing. The risk of it returned and Potter soon forgotten. 

April and May passed. Rain fell regularly, as was common in London. Queen Anne’s lace, Lady’s mantle and Canterbury Bells bloomed from the front and side gardens he passed on his way to the Underground. He’d taken to wearing Muggle jogging bottoms, making it much easier for hands to reach him. Buttons, fasteners and zips an annoyance he no longer wanted to be bothered with. A recent promotion, he now worked in men’s accessories. While a bit of a joke at Sainsbury, it now afforded him the opportunity to change to more appropriate attire once he arrived. His life while not as expected held a certain level of contentment. 

Life was good and it was his birthday, his twenty- fifth to be exact. Something special was going to happen on this day. He just knew it.

Of late, the strangers, faceless and nameless, had become just one, the touch unique and recognizable. His habit not to repeat with the same person, Draco had tried to move away when he realised; he knew that touch. Not possible. The other was stubborn and determined not to let him go. Draco grew exasperated; then as the encounters increased his he relaxed into it once he accepted. This stranger knew just how to stroke him, knew how hard to grip him, and intuited the speed Draco needed. Understood how the calloused roughness of the thickened skin around the nail of the finger, as it rolled the head of Draco’s penis, the thumb moving with practiced ease through the wetness that pooled there, and how the harsh scrap of the jagged nail down the vein of his prick, how all of it, every movement fulfilling Draco’s every need. 

The orgasms this hand brought Draco were harsh and soul shattering, causing his toes to curl inside the dragon hide boots he tried to wear whenever possible. A small reminder of who he truly was. 

His birthday dawned warm, the morning sun shining bright. By the time he’d arrived at the Tube station he and others were drenched to the bone. The sudden summer shower took most everyone by surprise. He dashed into the tunnel leading to the underground. Shaking himself all over like a wet dog, he attempted to remove at least some of the excess moisture. He looked up and caught the eye of another man, young and fit, across from him doing the same thing. Their eyes met, both laughing with the joy of being young and attractive on a warm and rainy day in June. Seduction was not part of it. They were just people, young and male, doing their best to get dry before reporting to work. A few moments later, a tall and beautiful blonde joined the other. She smiled a greeting and her appreciation of what she saw. 

The thin cotton material of the graphic T-shirt he wore still clung to his skin as did the soft jersey of the Muggle track bottoms that in their dampness hung even lower than usual on his slender hips. There would be no hiding it today. His body would show every sign of his arousal. So be it, he did not care. Nothing would stop him. He was careful; however, to avoid the same car as the young couple he’d just flirted with. 

Barely able to make it to the centre, the unexpected shower creating more of a demand for enclosed travel. With others around him just his wet, his own dampness wasn’t a concern. They had just left the station, the gentle sway of the car over the rails, gaining speed, as it hurtled out of the station, the morning chatter louder than usual, when it happened. 

The recognized feel of the remembered hand pressed firmly against his penis. The touch, as always, bold and confident, cocky even. Draco snickered at the little play on words in his mind. The stranger didn’t seem to appreciate that; squeezing a bit too hard. Draco’s cock responded in kind. It liked a bit of roughness. 

There was a small chuckle, the only sound the stranger had ever made. Draco stilled. The fingers strong and supple reached into his opening. One button keeping it closed and his cock safely tucked away. The button caught on the threads of the buttonhole. Uncharacteristically impatient, the hand wrenched at the button causing it to come loose and fall to the floor of the train. He’d never find it in this crowd; he hoped there would be a sewing kit he could use at the store. 

The hand warm and dry, how was that possible,encircled him. The hand ran up and down his shaft, more possessive than usual. Another hand caressed his lower back with gentle rubs before it pushed under the stretch waist. Draco tensed in anticipation. 

The hand that massaged the muscles of his arse was as firm and as assured as the one that tugged at his cock. Though the hand on his cock was as thorough and perfect as ever, Draco felt a change in the stranger. He was reckless; covetous even. Draco was a bit desperate himself. 

Draco bucked into the fist that firmly held his cock. The hand on his bum reached down and cupped his arse, where it met his thigh, and squeezed. Again a bit harshly, but soon made up for it by rubbing the tender area with a light touch. Fingers roamed lightly over his arse, but not without direction. Only the pads of the fingers were applied, the touch light yet firm as they searched for the crack in his arse. 

Draco was being mauled front and back, and he loved it. His crack stroked, his cock pumped, his balls held firm, then loosed, the attention returned to his cock. He was afraid he was going to come, but he wasn’t ready yet; wanted to these moments to last. His breathing was harsh and static, always before he’d kept it under control. Others around him were beginning to notice. Part of him didn’t care; the other part fearful if they knew, this would all end. 

The faceless stranger just as intent on maintaining this secrecy as Draco, loosened and slowed the hand on Draco’s cock, but only slightly. Draco was still very much aware of its presence. Draco let out a low sigh slowing his breath. He continued staring straight ahead, his expression schooled in blankness. He was soon forgotten by the others around him, except for the stranger. 

Draco’s reward for returning to the unseen and unseeing was the man removing his hand from Draco’s arse. He made up for it be rolling Draco’s sac with the tips of his fingers, pulling on it just the way Draco liked. The stranger knew this. Draco bit his tongue to keep from moaning out loud. Felt the heat of a finger as one edged closer and closer to his hole. 

The stranger moved in closer, one leg in front of Draco, the other to the rear. The hardness of the man’s prick pressed against his hip. Once again, the man reached under the waist at the back. The man’s hand was coated with something slick and fluid. When had he done that? Draco wondered, but then thought no more of it. As the stranger wasted neither time nor the slickness of the lube, and ran his finger along Draco’s crack, rubbing the oil into the skin. Then came to rest at his opening and just stopped. 

A crowded subway, full of Muggles, on a morning in June, tourists as well as regular morning commuters surrounding them, or not. It didn’t matter. If Draco could have found a way round the Ministry restriction on the use of magic in front of Muggles, he would have hexed the stupid wanker. Magical suspension be damned, although he felt sure he could make a case for self-defence here, as the stranger with the brilliant hands was slowly killing him. 

The man’s finger was there, right at the entrance. If he sneezed, or someone jostled him, or the train changed speed in any way, the finger would slip inside him. And it wasn’t as if the man had never been there before. The tip of the stranger’s finger had been inside Draco almost as often as he’d wanked Draco to completion. But they’d never happened at the same time. 

Draco huffed in exasperation. The stranger pressed in the one finger, not just the tip. It pushed its way past that ring of muscle. Draco’s cock twitched in jubilation. The finger pushed in and pulled almost all the way out, fucking Draco in the middle of the morning train on the District Line from West Kensington to White Chapel on 05 June, 2005, ringed by a car full of unknown and unknowing strangers. A second digit was added, both fingers stretching him, both fingers dripping with lubricant. The hand in the front encircled his cock, the grip dry; the friction pulling against his skin. 

It was as if he’d spoken, or the still faceless stranger had somehow read his thoughts. Somewhere in the part of his mind that still had rational thought, Draco recognised the words of the spell. The magic rolled over him. It should have given him pause, but the fingers moving in his arse and the fist, now slicked with lube, pumping his prick, not to mention the hardness of the stranger riding his hip, all of it was too much. He was too far gone, too close. 

The others on the train forgotten, he bucked wildly, thrusting forward into the hand and then back on to the fingers. All thought of composure vanished as he fucked himself on the fingers that were inside him. In the haze of his arousal he felt, more than saw, the shocked faces of those around them. 

Right on the cusp of his release, Draco barely hanging on by a thread, the stranger leaned in and spoke. His voice soft and low, rough with desire, right next to Draco’s ear, “Happy Birthday Malfoy.”

Draco’s orgasm ripped through him, causing his toes to once again curl. This time in the Muggle sandals he’d chosen, mistakenly, to wear that morning. Speechless and boneless, he maintained an upright position only by holding on to Potter. He gasped in shock as he covered Potter’s hand and fingers with his come. 

Potter continued jerking him off, and his fingers continued scissoring and flexing in Draco’s pulsing passage. His mouth never leaving the side of Draco’s ear, he spoke again, “Merlin, but you are fucking gorgeous when you come, and just from my fingers. I can’t imagine how debauched you’re going to look when it’s my dick pumping into you. I’m about to find out though.” 

He grabbed Draco’s arm, holding it tight and Apparated them to the men’s loo, three cars down. Draco’s track bottoms, now just slightly damp, were pushed down and Potter’s cock pressed in while Draco keened his pleasure. Potter’s mouth claimed his. The kiss hot and desperate, their tongues meeting in shared passion. 

Draco called in to work that day, taking the day off. It was his first in two years. It was his birthday, and Potter had promised to fuck him into the mattress, or wall, as the case may be, several times before the day ended.

****

The Ministry was very unhappy with Potter for using magic in a Muggle public place. Not to mention his failure to remember to cast an Obliviate. At least that was what he told Draco the next time they met and talked on the Underground. 

The voice remained unheard and the face unseen, the anonymity of it returning, yet Draco’s always recognised Potter’s touch. Always knew when Harry was watching, still and silent; though Draco never saw him on those days. On other days, Potter sat right up front, where he could watch every touch of the strangers’ hands on Draco. 

 

The end


End file.
